


Love's Liberation

by petyrbaealish



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Aidan Gillen Secret Santa, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas, F/M, Inspired by Frozen (2013)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-24
Updated: 2017-12-24
Packaged: 2019-02-19 22:33:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13133592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/petyrbaealish/pseuds/petyrbaealish
Summary: For the Aidan Gillen Secret Santa. A gift for @jonarya786 on tumblr, who wanted a Frozen type fic where Sansa can only be cured by true love's kiss.Merry Christmas! I hope you like it <333Sansa has been cursed by the Night King, and has until Christmas in her eighteenth year to break the curse with true love's kiss. Should she fail, the Night King will take her for his own. She thinks she has found the answer in Joffrey Baratheon, but fate has other plans as she tries desperately to make it to King's Landing in time.





	Love's Liberation

Most people thought that the seasons in Westeros were dictated by the gods, or perhaps by the way their planet's tilt sometimes changed (for some yet unexplained scientific reason) as it orbited around the sun. But Sansa knew differently.

Winter came upon the whims of the Night King.

And by the choices of girls like her, who had been cursed with his unwanted attentions.

For the Night King was always in search of a companion who suited his tastes, to last throughout eternity by his side. He visited the ones he thought most worthy in their dreams, and gave them their ultimatum:

"Come to me willingly, or take a chance that you might find true love, before your time runs out and I take what is rightfully mine."

From the moment the curse was set, winter would begin, a chill seeping into the air where there was none before. Soft flakes spiraling down from the sky, ready to blanket the ground in white. The longer a girl would seek her true love, the harsher winter became.

He chose his victims fairly young, the more likely they would be untouched by love, and gave them until the Christmas celebrated in their eighteenth year to either find their true love and break the curse with a kiss, or join him. Most failed in their quest and were taken by the Night King, then cast aside when he found them unsuitable as his eternal immortal consort.

But he was not a forgiving king. Only those who came to him willingly could return afterwards to the world they had known. The rest would be turned to ice and join the ranks of centuries of women who had failed to please him.

He came to Sansa in her dreams when she was but sixteen years old. At first Sansa had been reluctant to believe the dream had been anything more than a fabrication of her imagination, but then the snows had started, and she was forced to face the truth. She was trapped.

Like most girls, she chose not to come willingly, and instead accepted the terms she was given and searched for her true love. Unfortunately, Sansa lived in a dismally small town, where suitable prospects were few and far between, at least where she was concerned. She wanted something more than the boys she went to school with, who were all so rowdy and messy and completely uncouth.

A year passed and she was seventeen, and quickly growing desperate. She didn't want to spend eternity with the Night King, and she certainly didn't want to spend eternity as a popsicle. There had to be someone out there, someone just for her, someone who was everything she'd ever wanted, and more.

She was a romantic at heart, it was true, and perhaps her standards were too high, but how could it be true love if she wasn't happy with every aspect of her prospective partner?

Eventually she bit the bullet and tried her luck online. And, after wading through countless creeps who only wanted her to send them nudes (or to send her dick pics), and countless others who just didn't suit her tastes, she finally found someone.

And she fell in love.

It seemed meant to be. Joffrey Baratheon was, in fact, the son of Robert Baratheon, who had been great friends with her own father growing up. He was blonde and handsome, and oh so perfect. His family was well off, and he knew how to behave at public events (which he often went to, with his family), and he listened to her for hours on the phone, all while playing his video games (he was such a talented multitasker).

Most importantly, he said he loved her too.

The only problem (and it was a big one) was that he lived clear across the country. And though he had the money to fly out to see her, his parents didn't want him visiting. As for her own parents, they refused to let her fly out to see him until she was eighteen. And then, once she turned eighteen, they told her that they still didn’t like the idea of her going alone, not when she was still in school. Which meant that, though they loved each other, if she couldn't find a way to meet him and finally kiss him, she was still in danger of being taken by the Night King.

Sansa begged and begged her parents to let her go, or to take a family trip out there, but as winter reigned, they grew increasingly reluctant. It wasn't safe, her mother told her. The weather was too horrible, and getting worse every day. They weren't willing to risk it. Soon they expected that all planes would be permanently grounded for the duration of winter, and likely all ground travel would be halted as well.

It was true that she could have told her parents the real reason why she so badly needed to see Joffrey, but she doubted they would have believed her, and she didn't want to make things even more difficult for herself (hello psych ward) so she decided not to even try. Instead, she took matters into her own hands.

She had saved up her babysitting money now for months, working every chance she got, and soon she had enough to purchase a ticket to see Joffrey. It was for the morning of December 23rd, and really cutting it close, but it had taken her a long time to gather up the money, and longer still to get up the nerve to do it. She felt bad that she might very well be risking spending Christmas (Christmas Eve at the very least) away from her family, and that they'd likely freak out when they realized what she'd done, but she didn't have a choice. Either she flew out to see Joffrey and kissed him, or she'd be forever taken from her family, and from the world she'd known for far less time than she would have wanted.

Sansa packed up her bag and sneaked it into her car while no one else was home. Then, later, when it was time to go to the airport, she told her parents that she was going babysitting and said goodbye (trying desperately not to show her fear that that moment might very well be the last time she’d ever see them, if she failed to make it to King’s Landing in time). She arrived at the airport with plenty of time to spare, her heart soaring with the knowledge that soon she would be in Joffrey’s arms and everything would be right again with the world.

But though she’d had little trouble before then, and the weather had been startlingly cooperative thus far, her luck suddenly ran out. No sooner had she found the proper gate than the perpetual snowfall outside picked up with a sudden vehemence, and before anyone had even been called to board, the flight was delayed and then later cancelled, along with countless others. Sansa tried in vain to find another outgoing flight, even to somewhere that would probably require a subsequent flight before she saw Joffrey, but the few planes that hadn’t already been grounded were completely full.

Close to tears and more than a little dejected, Sansa lugged her carry-on bag over to the airport bar and ordered herself a lemon drop so she could wallow in self pity for awhile before she inevitably made her way back home. Sulking, she pulled out her phone to call Joffrey, but it went straight to voicemail, so she fired off a text instead, hoping he hadn’t let his phone die again like he always seemed to do. While she waited for his response, she finished her drink and ordered another, browsing halfheartedly through her twitter feed.

She stopped after the second drink, though she didn’t want to. Unfortunately she still had to drive home, and she knew better than to drive drunk, particularly with weather conditions as bad as they were. The last thing she needed was to get into an accident and freeze to death far earlier than she was likely meant to (she really doubted the Night King would want her for long). Instead she lingered at the bar, still hoping that Joffrey would call her back, or at least text her, waiting for the slight buzz she had to wear off and for the weather to lull so she wouldn’t have too horrible of a time driving back home.

Someone in her peripheral vision stopped by the bar and ordered a drink, but she didn’t pay them much mind, focused on her phone. That is, until she heard the conversation said person was having with the bartender and her ears perked up at its content.

“Quite some storm we’re having, innit?” the bartender said. “Lot of people are probably going to be stranded here shortly, once the incoming flights get in. Not to mention the poor schmucks whose flights have been cancelled.”

The patron chuckled. “Thankfully I’m neither.”

“That a fact? Lucky bastard. Just picking someone up or is yours one of the few planes still up and runnin’?”

“The latter,” the man answered.

“How’d you manage that? Dance with the devil last night?” the bartender slid the man’s order across the counter.

“Private plane. You have enough money, you can ignore regulations.”

The bartender whistled. “I’d envy you, but what with the storm and all it’s probably safer not to fly tonight. I had a flight later tonight myself, going home for the holidays, you know, but it’s not really worth risking in my opinion even if the flight hadn’t been cancelled. It’s a real shitstorm out there.”

“Unfortunately I have business to attend to in the capital that cannot wait, else I might agree with such a precaution,” the man responded.

Unable to help herself, Sansa turned on her stool to face the man. “You’re going to the capital? To King’s Landing?”

The man cocked an eyebrow. Sansa flushed, realizing that she’d just revealed that she’d been listening in on a private conversation. “Sorry, it’s just I was meant to fly there today as well, but my flight got cancelled,” she explained hastily.

His mouth quirked. “Sorry to hear that. I hope the cancellation hasn’t disrupted your holiday plans too greatly.”

Sansa, who had found herself staring at his mouth as he spoke, quickly glanced away, fighting against another, deeper flush. “Unfortunately it has, but it seems it cannot be helped,” she said, trying and failing to contain a sigh. “And now I’m not sure what I’m going to do.”

The man was quiet for a moment, and Sansa turned back to face him again only to see him studying her, his look calculating. He was older than her, perhaps in his late thirties or early forties at the most, the grey patches at his temples not quite warranted. The rest of his hair was dark brown, nearly black in color, the same hue darkening his chin and upper lip in a closely trimmed goatee and moustache. His eyes, grey-green and narrowed in thought, bespoke of great intelligence and hidden depths that made her want to waste hours, prying free the secrets they held.

“I realize that this might be a long shot, but I seem to recall that Catelyn Tully lives around these parts. You wouldn’t happen to be her daughter, would you?” he asked.

Sansa blinked, surprised. That was probably the last thing she’d have expected him to say next. “Actually yes, I am,” she said, then wanted to smack herself for her stupidity. If this man knew her mother, then he might reveal to Catelyn that Sansa had been at the airport.

His eyes lit up. “I thought so. You certainly have the Tully look about you.” He paused. “I knew your mother quite well, once. If it indeed is of some importance that you reach King’s Landing, then I feel I would be remiss if I didn’t offer you passage. There’s more than enough room, considering it will just be me, and of course the staff, aboard.”

Sansa’s jaw dropped. “Really?” she asked, not even attempting to restrain her excitement at his offer.

He nodded. “If you still wish to go, that is.”

Sansa nodded emphatically and jumped to her feet, only just barely remembering in time that she probably shouldn’t go hugging a complete stranger. “Yes, please, oh thank you so much,” she said, the gratitude palpable in her voice. “I can compensate you for the flight later if you want, once I get a refund for my ticket.”

The man waved his hand dismissively. “That won’t be necessary. It’s no skin off my back to take on one extra passenger.”

She grinned at him. “Oh, you don’t know how truly grateful I am. You’re a lifesaver, honestly.”

He chuckled. “Surely an overstatement, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

Sansa bit her lip. Little did he know she hadn’t been exaggerating.

“They should be about ready for takeoff now,” he continued, “though I think introductions are in order first, don’t you?” He extended his hand. “Petyr Baelish.”

She laughed. “Right, probably a good idea,” she said, taking his proffered hand. His hand felt warm, her own dwarfed in its grip. “I’m Sansa. Sansa Stark.”

Rather than shaking her hand, he lifted it to his lips, brushing a chaste kiss across her knuckles, that sent a thrill down her spine. “Pleasure to meet you, Sansa Stark.”

 

* * *

 

Before Sansa knew it she was on the plane, relaxing comfortably as the pilot prepared for takeoff. Her eyes had bugged when she’d climbed aboard; she’d never flown before except for in coach, and certainly it was quite an extraordinary difference. In fact, it didn’t look like the inside of an airplane at all. Rather than seats crammed together in neat rows and narrow aisles, jam packed with people and snot nosed children, all crabby from the close quarters, the cabin in Mr. Baelish’s private plane was spacious, and free from occupants save for herself and Mr. Baelish.

It had a long, curved couch that sat opposite a real, working fireplace (a fireplace! On a plane! Was she dreaming?) whose flames danced merrily as they radiated warmth. Above the hearth on the wall was hung a large flat screen television, its volume muted as it played that day’s news. A coffee table was situated in front of the couch, and a few chairs more in line with what she’d imagined to be on an airplane were by the windows, though they looked far more luxurious than those she’d sat in before when she’d flown coach. A table and two chairs were placed between the windows and the fireplace, and she could see a bar in the area leading off to where Mr. Baelish had disappeared to speak with the pilot.

She still couldn’t believe her incredible luck, even as a part of her worried about accepting such kindness from a complete stranger. Sure, he claimed to know her mother, but Sansa had never heard her mother mention this man’s name before. And even if he had known her mother once, it had likely been years since they’d last been in contact, and perhaps they had never really gotten on well back then. It would certainly explain why Catelyn had never spoken of him before.

But she was desperate to see Joffrey, and desperate to break the curse, and she didn’t see any other way but to accept Mr. Baelish’s offer. And anyway, he seemed nice enough. And he hadn’t lied about having a private plane at his disposal, which was a good sign.

Plus, if he turned out to be a murderer or something, well, honestly she’d probably rather die than surrender herself to the Night King. The mere thought of the Night King taking her for his wife, touching her in the most intimate of ways, sent her stomach roiling.

Sansa gratefully accepted the flight attendant’s offer of free champagne, and slowly sipped at the alcohol, enjoying the way the bubbles tickled her lips and tongue. She’d curled up on the couch, setting her carry-on bag on the cushions next to her, for easy access. Tucked inside was a book she’d brought along to distract herself, but she was too nervous to read, for the moment at least. Mr. Baelish wasn’t with her; he’d gone to speak with the pilot soon after they’d entered the plane, leaving her with assurances that she should make herself comfortable in his absence

Before she’d climbed aboard, she’d sent another text to Joffrey, informing him that she’d found a way to come after all, but though it had been perhaps an hour since she’d first called him, he still hadn’t responded. She kept staring at her phone, willing it to ring, for text messages to pop up on the screen, but it remained stubbornly silent. Eventually she stuffed it back inside her purse, knowing that she’d go mad if she kept focusing on it, though she couldn’t refrain from sneaking glances every now and then.

Just before the plane began its ascent, Mr. Baelish returned, a laptop tucked under one arm. He smiled at her, then took a seat not far from where she was lounging. Sansa turned to watch as he perched the computer on his lap and opened it, pressing the power button.

“I just want to thank you again, Mr. Baelish,” she began. “You don’t know how grateful I am for your help.”

“Petyr,” he corrected her. “There’s no need for such formality.”

Sansa smiled. “Petyr,” she repeated. “Thank you.”

He smirked. “I think that might be the tenth time you’ve thanked me in the space of a half an hour.”

She blushed. “Sorry, I’m just really-”

“Grateful, yes I know.” He chuckled. “Relax. I have no intention of rescinding my offer, and, while I appreciate your thoroughly expressed gratitude, I can assure you that it’s not necessary. I am happy to help.” He paused, then gestured towards the flute of champagne she was still holding onto, nearly drained of its contents. “Would you like some more?”

Sansa shook her head. “I better not. I probably shouldn’t have even accepted the first glass.” She stared down at her lap. “I’m just nervous,” she confessed.

“About?”

“Getting to King’s Landing in time. It’s really important that I make it there before Christmas. I am worried that the weather will worsen and we won’t make it.” She drained the last of her champagne from her glass and set it aside.

“Well, I won’t lie, the weather isn’t exactly calming down, but the pilot in my employ has dealt with far worse before. You shouldn’t have cause for worry.” He paused. “And even if we’re forced to land, there’s always tomorrow. We have plenty of time.”

“I hope you’re right,” she said, sighing softly.

“Why don’t you watch something,” Petyr suggested. “Take your mind off of it. There’s quite a selection available for your perusal. Live TV even, if you wish it.” Leaning forward, he swiped the remote control from the coffee table and held it out to her.

Sansa reached out to take it from him, jumping slightly as her fingers brushed his and she felt a little current jolt through her, spreading from her fingertips and down her spine. He seemed wholly unaffected, simply offering her a reassuring smile before turning back to this laptop, and, strangely, she found herself disappointed by that fact. Confused, she pushed the feeling away and focused on finding something to watch, finally settling on one of those cheesy holiday movies that always cropped up around this time of year. This one seemed to involve holiday amnesia, and, of course, that one child who still persistently believed in Santa Claus, despite being far too old for it (and, lo and behold, they were rewarded for their faith by meeting the man himself!).

Unfortunately, try as she might, she couldn’t seem to get into the story (though perhaps she ought to have chosen something less insipid, something that actually was engaging), her eyes instead flicking to the man hard at work on his laptop, only feet away. She didn’t understand why she was so interested. Why, it was almost as if she _liked_ him.

But that couldn’t be. She’d only just met him, after all.

And she was in love with Joffrey. He was the one who would break the curse. He was the one she was meant for.

So why couldn’t she stop looking at Petyr?

He knew she was watching him too. She could see it in the way his mouth kept twisting slightly, the beginnings of a smirk playing about his lips. But he was kind enough not to comment on it. At least for a little bit. And even then he never referenced it directly, though his subtle hint still brought a flush to her cheeks.

“Not enjoying the film?”

Sansa startled, realizing she’d been staring at him again. He hadn’t even looked up from the computer screen as he’d spoken, but of course she knew he’d been talking to her. “Not really,” she confessed.

“I don’t blame you there. It’s not exactly a cinematic masterpiece, is it?”

“Hmm?” She’d moved on from studying his face to the way his perfectly tailored suit accentuated his slim form. He wasn’t a large man, but he still cut quite a figure. And she’d never seen such fine stitching. Clearly his suit was expensive, purchased from a designer label that had never touched the small town where she’d grown up.

A masterpiece indeed.

“The movie,” Petyr clarified.

Sansa’s blush deepened. Of course he’d meant the movie. She forced her eyes to stop roving over his body and glanced up to see him staring at her, his smirk firmly in place. “I suppose not, but I haven’t really been paying attention enough to tell.”

“I’ve noticed.”

Gods, she really hadn’t been subtle, had she? What was wrong with her?

He closed his laptop and set it on the coffee table. “Clearly you need something more stimulating to distract yourself. I’m sure you have questions. Ask away.”

Sansa bit her lip, repressing the first question she’d instinctively begun to ask (Are you heading home to your girlfriend? Wife?) and settled on another, hopefully safer question. One that she was just as eager to hear the answer to. “How did you know my mother?”

Something flickered in his eyes, oh so briefly, before they became inscrutable once more. “We grew up together as kids. She considered me a friend, perhaps a brother.” He paused. “My feelings were rather different. Her fiance at the time didn’t like that I tried to convince her not to marry him. It ended badly.”

“Oh,” she said, dropping her gaze to her lap. “Sorry to hear that.”

He shrugged. “It happens. I’m over it, as it were. And we haven’t spoken in decades.” He paused again. “You’ve never heard of me before today, correct?”

Sansa only nodded, still staring at her hands, which were splayed in her lap, fingertips digging into her soft, woolen skirt.

“I’m not surprised. I expected as much, honestly.” Another pause. “I do hope you’ve been luckier in love than I’ve ever been. Though you’re still young. You have time enough.”

She couldn’t help but let out a bitter laugh at that. If only he knew….

Glancing up, she could see he had lifted one eyebrow, waiting for her to elaborate, but she couldn’t exactly explain everything to him without sounding insane, so she chose not to indulge him. Though, perhaps what she said next was more than a little contradictory to her earlier reaction, without the context.

“I’ve been quite lucky, actually. It’s why I’m going to King’s Landing,” she explained. “We’ve been talking for months now, and now we’re finally going to meet.”

“And meeting him before Christmas is really that urgent?” He sounded skeptical.

She couldn’t blame him. Without knowing about the curse, it sounded like she was just a lovesick teenager.

“Yes. We’ve waited so long and I’m not sure when we’ll next get an opportunity to see each other,” she said, knowing how lame her excuse sounded even as she said it.

Thankfully he chose not to call her out on it. “And he lives in King’s Landing?”

She nodded. “Perhaps you know him? His name’s Joffrey.” Joffrey’s family was prominent in the capital. It was likely Petyr would at least know of Joffrey, if he didn’t know him personally.

“Not Joffrey Baratheon?”

Sansa smiled. “That’s him.”

His eyes narrowed, ever so slightly, and her smile faltered. “Sweetling, how old are you?” Petyr asked.

The thrill she felt upon hearing him use a term of endearment for her was eclipsed by the question. She frowned. “Eighteen, why?”

“And how did you two meet?”

Her frown deepened. She didn’t like the look on Petyr’s face at that moment. Like he knew something she didn’t. Like he pitied her. Like he was working out a way to best break the news to her that Joffrey was actually a thirteen year old boy who’d been pretending he was older. “Online, but my father was once really good friends with his father,” she said defensively. “So I know what I’m doing. Who he is.”

“Do you?” There was that skepticism again.

“Yes,” she snapped, turning away from Petyr determinedly and focusing on the movie again. She had no idea what was going on anymore (in truth she never had) and it was practically over by now, but it was something she could use to ignore his persistent questioning and pitying gaze, so it served its purpose well enough.

He was quiet for a time, and she could feel his eyes on her, but she stared steadfastly ahead, her gaze fixated on the television screen. Eventually he grabbed his laptop and began to work again (or whatever he’d been doing before. Not that she cared), and Sansa was left in peace. She put on another goofy Christmas movie after the first one ended (this one she’d seen before, multiple times as a child. It was silly, but she had a soft spot in her heart for it), but spent more time silently fuming than actually watching.

Who was he to question her relationship with Joffrey? He didn’t know her. And he probably didn’t even know Joffrey. So his opinion counted for absolutely nothing.

She loved Joffrey, and Joffrey loved her, and that was all there was to it.

Still….

Why hadn’t Joffrey answered her back yet? He didn’t know about the curse, of course, but he’d known she was coming. He’d known how important this was to her, that they finally meet. Why hadn’t he at least texted, just once?

And just what was it that Petyr knew about Joffrey? Was it that bad? Or was Petyr just looking at her like that because she’d met Joffrey online?

She had to find out.

“How do you know Joffrey?” she asked, voice small. Timid. She hated herself for it. And for even asking.

For doubting Joffrey.

Petyr’s response was immediate. “I work with his father.” He paused. “And his grandfather, his mother, and his uncles on both sides.”

“And do you know Joffrey well?” Please say no, she thought. _Please_.

“Yes.”

“And? What is it? What’s so bad that you keep looking at me like that?” she demanded.

“Like what?”

“Like I’m a complete fool whose fallen for some trap,” she snapped.

He hesitated. “Are you two exclusive?” he asked carefully.

Sansa flinched. “Of course we are. Why?” She felt her stomach tighten. Oh no….

Petyr sighed. “I was afraid of that.”

“Why?” she asked again, though she was afraid to hear the answer.

“Because Joffrey’s not exactly… celibate,” he answered tactfully. “He rarely spends a night alone, in fact.”

Sansa shook her head, disbelieving. “No,” she insisted. “You’re wrong.” She gulped. “We love each other.”

“Perhaps,” he said gently. “Or perhaps you’ve fallen for the boy you think he is. The one he’s told you he is. It’s easy enough to deceive someone. Particularly online.”

She shook her head again, refusing to believe that Joffrey had been playing her for a fool all this time. That now she not only had to deal with a broken heart, but also face the realization that, without someone who loved her in return, she would soon be in the Night King’s grasp.

“No,” she repeated, that one word coming out strangled and desperate. She turned away from Petyr and fisted her hands in her skirt, trying to stop them from shaking. “I don’t believe you,” she whispered, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill over and trail down her cheeks with liquid proof of the fact that her world had just shattered around her.

She was dimly aware of Petyr getting up and leaving the room as she did her best to maintain her composure, and of footsteps signaling his return. There was a light touch to her shoulder and she glanced up to see a glass of champagne, its cheerful bubbles filling her line of vision. Gratefully she took the champagne and gulped down a mouthful, closing her eyes as she savored the taste, the bite of the alcohol lingering under the sweetness, and the way the carbonation tingled on her tongue. When she opened her eyes again she could see Petyr staring down at her, expression concerned. She attempted a smile, and was about to thank him when the flight attendant from earlier hurried into the cabin.

“Mr. Baelish? The captain would like a word.”

Petyr reached out and gave Sansa’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze, then turned and followed the flight attendant out of sight. Releasing a shuddering sigh, Sansa sipped at the champagne again, then downed the rest of the glass’ contents, wanting to numb her mind, and her heart. She sighed again as she lowered the glass, then set it on the coffee table and reached for her phone.

Still no response from Joffrey.

Gnawing at her lip, her heart settled firmly in her throat, she made up her mind and opened her messages, quickly tapping out a text to Joffrey.

‘I suppose we’ve never said it before, but we’re exclusive, right? I mean, we love each other, so I’d always just assumed that we were…. But you’re not seeing anyone else, are you? I’m sorry if my asking that offends you. It’s just, someone who says they know you told me something rather unsettling, and though I don’t want to believe their claims, I cannot stop worrying about it. I have to know. Am I the only one?’

Before she could change her mind, she hit send, then tossed her phone away from her. It bounced slightly as it landed on the couch cushion, then remained still. Mocking her with its silence. Her heart was frantic with the knowledge of what she’d just sent Joffrey, and what she might find out when he finally responded.

If he had truly been seeing other girls, that was it, it was over. He couldn’t sleep with a different girl every night and still claim to love her. And if he was the kind of guy who would do such a thing, she knew she didn’t love him.

Perhaps Petyr had been right. She didn’t know Joffrey at all.

Sansa prayed for Petyr to be wrong. For Joffrey to be the faithful, loving man she’d thought him to be. For their love not to be tarnished.

For the kiss that would save her from the Night King.

If Petyr had been right, if Joffrey had been cheating on her, then all was lost, and she hated them both for it. She hated Petyr for ruining what should have been her salvation (though she knew that was unfair. He wasn’t to blame). And she hated Joffrey for lying to her, and wasting her time. Perhaps she still would have had a chance to find love in time, had she not spent months invested in Joffrey.

Now she would never know.

Sansa dropped her head into her hands, listening in despair for the sounds that refused to come from her phone. She didn’t stir, not even when Petyr reentered the cabin. He hesitated by the doorway, then left and reappeared again, walking straight to her side and taking a seat next to her on the couch. She felt his hand on her arm and slowly lifted her face from her hands to find he was holding another champagne flute, filled nearly to the brim.

Without asking if it was for her, she took it from him and tipped back the glass, feeling the cool liquid swirl across her tongue and waterfall down her throat.

“I’m afraid I have some bad news,” he began.

Sansa lowered the glass and closed her eyes. Almost everything else had gone wrong, it was only fitting that more would follow suit.

“The snow’s getting too thick to navigate through, and the wind is worse. We’re going to need to land at the next available airstrip,” Petyr continued.

She swallowed, her throat constricted. “And where’s that?”

“Near the Eyrie. And unfortunately, due to a series of blackouts, accommodations are scarce. We’ll have to make do with my ancestral home in the Fingers, for the night at the very least. To wait out the storm.” He paused. “It’s not much, but it will be decent shelter from the snow. There’s a fireplace, and we can try and pick up some rations on the way over.”

She sighed, opened her eyes, and turned to look at him, sad blues finding unreadable grey-greens. “Okay.”

Petyr flashed her a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry. But we may still make it to King’s Landing in time.”

Sansa looked away again and tipped the remaining liquid from her champagne flute down her throat. “I don’t think there’s any point in going anymore, honestly.”

“You never know. Life could still surprise you.”

She snorted, not caring how unladylike it was to do so. Not in that moment anyway. “Doubtful.”

“Such cynicism for someone so young,” he commented softly.

“I have good reason for it,” she assured him.

“Perhaps you do, but as of yet I haven’t heard it. One scorned heart isn’t near enough to warrant it.”

“I’m sure you felt differently when my mother broke your heart,” she countered.

“Indeed, but there was quite a lot more involved than unrequited love at the time.” He stood and gently pried the champagne flute from her grip, swiping the other one she’d drained earlier on his way out.

“Oh?” she called after him, intrigued.

“Yes. But I’d rather not get into into tonight,” he told her, returning with another glass, this one only half full. “The weather is dismal enough without reliving the past’s tragedies”

Sansa pouted as she took the glass, and he chuckled. “Best pace yourself, sweetling. Else you may find yourself regretting it in the morning.”

There it was again. That nickname. She found she liked it. It made her feel… treasured.

“If you won’t ply me with alcohol then at least tell me more,” she needled. “Misery loves company, you know,” she reminded him.

Petyr chuckled again, the gravel in its timbre snagging in her heart. “Perhaps later, once we’re settled. We should be making our descent soon.” He patted her knee then stood, reaching for his laptop.

Placated, she sipped at her champagne, watching from the couch as he gathered up his things. She hadn’t unpacked anything, so all she had to do was grab her phone, purse, and bag before they departed. He sat back down as the pilot alerted them of their descent, and then she was shrugging on her coat and they stepped outside into a whirlwind of white that obscured nearly everything not two feet in front of her face. It was bitingly cold, and she was grateful when she was ushered into the welcome warmth of a car, its tires, headlights, and build suited for navigating the raging snowstorm.

She was alone in the backseat, Petyr up front with the driver, a man called Lothor Brune. None of the others had come with them, and Sansa wondered where the flight staff planned to ride out the storm. Perhaps they would stay at the airport, meager as it was? The backup generators at least kept the electricity on in the building, so they would be warm.

They drove for awhile in relative silence, then stopped at one of the few lit buildings in the area, a convenience store that was empty of all but a few people, mostly miserable looking employees. Sansa was reluctant to leave the warmth of the car, but she also was quite hungry, so she followed Petyr inside. There wasn’t much left, most of the food snatched by people frightened that the storm would never let up, but Petyr had a quiet conversation with the acting manager and, after some money exchanged hands, they were led to the back where the employees had hoarded a sizeable stash.

Sansa was delighted to find a large, store baked lemon cake, and when Petyr spotted her looking at it, he told her to grab it, despite the impracticality. They also picked up a case of bottled water, a roast chicken that smelled divine even though it had long since cooled, a few bags of chips, a couple of loaves of bread, butter and jam, peanut butter, cheese, and a couple of thawing frozen pizzas (Sansa wasn’t sure how they’d cook them if the power was out, but she assumed Petyr must have a plan). Finally, Petyr purchased a few bottles of wine, some whiskey, a bunch of candles and matches, the rest of the batteries, and two tiny flashlights, as well as a few other necessities.

They wheeled the cart out to the car and Lothor, who’d been waiting, the car still running, got out to help them load everything in. Petyr urged Sansa to climb back in when she reached for a bag, and she didn’t need to be told twice, slipping gratefully into the toasty warmth. She was just brushing the snow out of her hair when the men ducked back inside and they were off again, headlights blazing through an otherwise impenetrable blanket of white.

Sansa didn’t know how Lothor could see where they were going, and soon gave up trying to see, too terrified that he’d make a mistake and they’d drive off a cliff. She figured it was better not to know it was coming, if indeed it were to happen.

An hour passed, and she felt herself growing drowsy from the heat inside the car, and eventually nodded off, her cheek pressed against the cold glass of the window. She only woke when her body registered the sudden arrest of movement, jerking further from her sleep as car doors slammed. Startled, she sat up, only to find herself alone in the car, the engine still running. Feeling confused, she turned around, squinting as she tried to see through the snow flurried blackness of night, but she couldn’t see anything. Or anyone.

Just as she was starting to panic, she heard someone tapping at her window and turned again to see Petyr at her door. She opened it, recoiling from the cold as it swept inside.

“We’re here,” he told her.

Sansa nodded, then turned to get her bag from where she’d set it on the seat next to her. It was gone.

“We’ve already brought everything inside,” Petyr explained.

The driver’s side door opened again and Lothor slipped inside, turning the keys in the ignition and quieting the engine before climbing back out and stumping out of sight without a word. Sansa shifted in her seat and began to get out of the car as well, her limbs stiff from sleep and her prolonged seated position. She stumbled slightly, falling against Petyr who was thankfully there to catch her, then held onto his arm as he guided her through the blinding snow towards what she quickly recognized as a house, it’s stone foundation solid, if a little worn.

They made their way inside, the air warmer within but not by much. The furnishings were sparse, all of an older era, though well cared for and mostly untouched by time. Petyr led her into the living room where a fire was already crackling in the hearth. The majority of the food (and of the other supplies) was piled on a nearby table, their suitcases perched on the chairs. Lit candles were spaced around the room, bathing it in a warm glow. Lothor was nowhere to be seen.

“He’s going to stay in the small shack out back,” Petyr explained, answering her unspoken question.

Sansa frowned. “Why?”

Petyr shrugged. “He likes his privacy. He’s probably just going to eat, then get some sleep. There’s a fireplace there, and a cot, and with the close quarters he’ll probably be warmer than us. It’s a short walk back if he needs anything.” Seeing her the skepticism etched on her face, he continued, voice reassuring. “He’ll be fine. He’s used to roughing it.”

She didn’t understand why Lothor didn’t just stay with them, but decided not to get all worked up about it. Really, she had quite enough to worry about without puzzling through Lothor’s (or Petyr’s) motives.

Which reminded her….

Sansa stiffened, suddenly realizing that she’d been so consumed with anxiety over her predicament with Joffrey and the Night King that she’d completely forgotten about her family, back in Winterfell. Certainly they had noticed she wasn’t simply baby-sitting by now, and had begun to worry where she might be and if she was safe.

Quickly, she rushed over to where her purse was sitting atop her carry-on bag and rifled through it, retrieving her phone.

“What’s wrong?” Petyr asked.

Her mind singular in its task, Sansa didn’t answer at first. She tried to wake her phone, and frowned when it wouldn’t respond. Frustrated, she held her thumb to the power button, praying that it would turn back on, that the battery hadn’t gone and died, leaving her without any way to contact her parents.

Stubbornly, it resisted complying with her prayers, and she cursed out loud and threw it back into her purse, angry. With technology for requiring electricity to work. With the Night King for putting her into this mess. With Joffrey for (more than likely) tricking her into believing he loved her. And with the storm, for forcing them to land before they’d reached King’s Landing, and for knocking out the power besides.

But mostly, mostly she was angry with herself. She should have charged her phone on the plane, when she’d had the chance. Or asked Petyr if he had one of those car chargers on the way here. Or contacted her parents and let them know what was happening, that she was safe at least, rather than leaving them wholly in the dark, subject to panic when they couldn’t reach their eldest daughter.

She felt horrible, for what she was likely putting them through, even now. They’d probably tried to get ahold of her a dozen times by now, at least. And they’d keep trying, and she had no way to answer them, or reassure them.

“Sansa?” Petyr asked.

Unless….

She whirled around to face Petyr. “Do you have your phone? Does it still work?”

“Yes,” he said hesitantly. “But I’m not sure it’s a great idea to try and contact Joffrey with it. And we really should conserve battery power.”

“I don’t want to talk to Joffrey,” she said quickly. “I want to contact my parents. Let them know I’m okay.”

His eyes narrowed. “They don’t know, do they? That you were planning to fly out to King’s Landing.”

Sansa avoided his gaze and he sighed and pulled his phone out of his pocket, holding it out for her to take. She cradled it in her hands, biting her lip as she considered her options. Right now the phone was on airplane mode to conserve the battery. If she called her parents, they’d never get off the phone without a fight and probably keep calling her back until they’d drained it completely. And a text message would likely result in the same mess. No, she had to contact them in a way that wouldn’t sap the battery and wouldn’t alert them to where she was and whose phone she was using.

“Why don’t you send them an email,” Petyr suggested.

She nodded thoughtfully. “Good idea.”

Passing the phone back to him, she dug into her bag for her sketchbook and pen (she was always sketching fashion designs she’d dreamed up or been inspired by) and retreated to the couch to draft a letter. Petyr busied himself with unpacking the food, then disappeared and returned with a pile of blankets, which he deposited on an armchair before making several more trips, each time with an armful of blankets, cushions, or pillows.

When Sansa glanced up and caught his eye, curious as to what he was doing, he explained, “This is the only room with a fireplace, so we’ll make camp here for the night. As cold as it is now, it’s just going to get worse, the later it gets. We’ll need all the insulation we can get.”

She was still wearing her coat, and shivering, even with her fairly close proximity to the fire, so she didn’t doubt his words, instead nodding in agreement before turning back to her letter. It took forever, but finally she was satisfied with its contents and asked for Petyr’s phone again so she could sign into her email account and send it. Her parents would get it and hopefully believe her when they read that she was safe. They’d still be worried, but, since she had written that she was already safe and sound in King’s Landing, and since they were likely unable to leave the house, she was counting on them not to freak out too much.

He waited until she was finished, then took his phone back and turned it completely off before tucking it back in his pocket. “Alright, now that that’s settled, let’s see if we can get warm again shall we? We can drag the couch over closer to the fire and make a kind of nest next to it of some of the pillows and blankets. You can either take the couch or join me on the floor, up to you.”

Sansa raised her eyebrows at him and he smirked. “Body heat, sweetling. Not to mention, you’d be closer to the fire.”

“And that’s the only reason, huh?” she asked, hardly believing her daring as the words slipped out of her mouth.

“And what other reasons would I have, hmm?” he teased.

That did it. She flushed and turned away, embarrassed at her presumption. Unperturbed, Petyr walked closer to where she was still sitting and caught her hand, pulling her to her feet. Startled, she gaped at him, wide eyed, but he only stepped around her and grabbed ahold of the couch, dragging it closer to the fire. She watched, still feeling rather mortified, as he situated the couch to his liking, then picked up some of the cushions and began arranging them on the floor.

“Can you grab me one of those fitted sheets,” he requested.

Shaking herself free from her stupor, Sansa turned to do as he asked, then knelt to help him stretch it over the cushions he’d laid out in makeshift mattress. They piled a few more pillows on and draped several sheets and blankets overtop that could be crawled under, topping it all off with two comforters. When they were finished, Sansa suddenly realized she’d handed all of the pillows and blankets over to him for the floor, leaving none for the couch.

Whoops.

He didn’t say anything, though she could see from the tilt of his mouth that he had noticed. Deciding just to go with it, Sansa wriggled underneath the blankets, propping herself up on the pillows and curling up, finally feeling the chill leave her frozen limbs. Surprisingly, Petyr didn’t join her, instead getting back to his feet. She was loathe to move, already so comfortable (it really wasn’t bad, despite the fact that she was on the floor), but she turned to look just as he disappeared out of the room.

Sansa didn’t have long to wonder where he’d gone when he was back, carrying a tray with a couple of plates, two wine glasses, and some cutlery. He handed the tray over to her then went over to grab the chicken, cheese, butter, and bread from the table, handing those over as well before grabbing them a water bottle apiece, a bottle of wine and a bag of chips.

“We’ll eat the chicken first, since it won’t last nearly as long as the rest,” he said, climbing under the blankets across from her, their humble feast between them.

Sansa noticed that some of the chicken was already gone, as well as a few slices of bread and some cheese. More than likely, Lothor had taken them for his own meal. She shifted until she was sitting upright, still covered by the blankets, then reached for one of the bottles of water, cracking the seal and taking a much needed sip to quench her thirst. Petyr opened the container with the chicken inside and used a knife and fork to carve off a portion for himself and then for her as well, then pulled out two slices of bread and buttered them, leaving one on her plate as he bit into the other.

She nibbled at a bit of chicken and smiled. Though it was cold, it was still very flavorful, the skin slightly salty and the meat deliciously tender. The cheese too was good, as was the bread, a twelve grain variety she’d always favored. They ate in relative silence, and Sansa reveled in the sheer satisfaction she gained from the meal despite its simplicity. It felt like an age since she’d last eaten, though she’d eaten a decent enough breakfast earlier that day.

So much had happened since then, that it wasn’t any wonder that it felt like far more time had passed than only perhaps ten hours at most.

Sansa was just opening the bag of chips when Petyr broke their companionable silence with the question she’d been dreading. “Why didn’t you tell your parents you were going to King’s Landing?” He paused. “And why go at all, if it was against their wishes? Especially with the current weather forecast. Was it really worth risking everything, just to see Joffrey?”

She bit into a chip, weighing her options. Either she could tell him the truth or she could lie and pass it off that she was just a stupid teenager who couldn’t bear to be apart from the boy she loved any longer. He’d probably believe her. She would too. She’d been so stupid to believe that Joffrey had loved her. More and more she had the sneaking suspicion that Petyr had told the truth, that Joffrey wasn’t the boy she’d built him up to be, that she’d been so desperate to find love that she’d created a fantasy around the real thing and fallen in love with that instead.

But she didn’t like the idea that Petyr would think she was stupid. Somehow, though she’d only known him for a few hours, his opinion mattered a great deal to her.

So that left only the truth.

Or.

Or she could ignore him or refuse to give any answer at all, but somehow she didn’t think that would fly. He seemed like a man who knew how to get the answers he wanted.

So the truth then. Or at least part of it.

“I didn’t tell them because they didn’t want me to go,” she said quietly. “Not with the weather like this. And they were right. It was stupid and it was risky. But I felt like I didn’t have a choice. I have other reasons beyond Joffrey that required that I go to King’s Landing. Reasons that necessitated urgency.” She paused. “I’d rather not go into it more than that, if you don’t mind.”

Petyr studied her for a moment, then leaned over and grabbed the bottle of wine, uncorking it before filling both glasses. He took a sip and sighed. “This was the best wine they had on hand and unfortunately it’s still completely deplorable,” he complained.

Sansa took a sip from her own glass and tried not to smile. It tasted decent enough to her. But then he’d probably had wine worth thousands and she’d never had anything of the sort. Her parents mainly drank boxed wine sold in supermarkets.

Though they didn’t exactly go with the wine, Sansa kept eating the chips until Petyr asked if she was ready for cake and she brightened. She’d forgotten all about the lemon cake they’d bought. He got up and cleared away the food (she’d offered to help but he’d insisted that she stay where it was warm), packing up the perishables and leaving them out on the screened in porch to keep cool before returning with clean plates and forks for the cake.

He’d just gotten settled, the cake set between them on the tray, along with the plates and forks, when he groaned. “Fuck, I forgot a knife.”

Sansa shrugged. “Eh, we can make do,” she said, picking up one of the utensils and forking up a bite of cake before popping it into her mouth. The sweet and tart flavor burst on her tongue and she closed her eyes, sighing softly as she enjoyed the morsel. When she opened her eyes again he was was staring at her, expression amused.

“What? It’s just us,” she said. “Unless you’re afraid of my germs,” she added, tone teasing.

He rolled his eyes and reached for his own fork. “Hardly.” He took a bite, then nodded in approval. “Pretty good.”

“Really good,” she corrected him, digging into the cake again with increased gusto.

He chuckled. “For a supermarket cake anyway.”

“Snob,” she told him.

“And proud of it,” he assured her.

She stuck her tongue out at him and he laughed before taking another sip of his wine. When he glanced back up, he laughed again. “Sweetling, you’ve got a bit of frosting….”

Sansa blushed and reached up, trying to find the smear where he was indicating. “Where?”

He shook his head, amused. “No, it’s just….” Petyr paused, then reached out, taking her chin in his hand and swiping his thumb across her upper lip.

Her eyes dipped down as he began to pull his hand away, her heart thrumming in her ears, and she could see a bit of frosting tipping his thumb. Before she knew it, she had reached up and caught his hand in hers, bringing his thumb back to her mouth, lips parted. She tasted the sweetness of the frosting, and the salt upon his skin, and through lowered lashes she saw his eyes darken as her tongue teased away every last trace of frosting from the digit. His fingers found her chin again and his thumb pulled free from her mouth to gently trace her lips.

Her heart skipped a beat.

And then she remembered herself, and he could see it in her eyes, that confusion and regret, and he pulled his hand away as if her blush had burned his skin with its sheer ferocity. Sansa swallowed and laid down her fork, no longer hungry.

“I think I would like to try and get some sleep,” she whispered, no longer trusting herself to stay awake. Not when she felt this close to doing some really, incredibly stupid.

Petyr nodded. “Okay.”

 

* * *

 

He’d cleaned up everything, setting the mostly uneaten cake back on the table in its plastic container and bringing the dirty dishes into the kitchen before blowing out all of the candles and slipping into their makeshift bed, both of the flashlights in his hand, already equipped with batteries. He passed one to her and explained how to find the bathroom, then left her alone.

Sansa was closest to the fire, and she turned to face it, watching the flames flicker for awhile before closing her eyes and enjoying the way their warmth danced even through shuttered lids. Petyr was quiet beside her, though she heard him shifting underneath the blankets every now and then, clearly not asleep yet and struggling to get comfortable. She tried not to think about what she’d just done, about how brazenly she’d taken his thumb into her mouth. And she’d tried not to think about how much she wished she hadn’t chickened out.

She was sure that, had she not shied away, he would have kissed her.

And she would have liked it. Very much.

She tried too not to think about the fact that she’d soon be compelled to join the Night King. That she’d failed in her quest for true love. That she’d made the wrong decision, and now she would pay for it.

She tried also to get some sleep, but it wouldn’t come. There were too many thoughts inside her head, and they wouldn’t quiet, no matter how much she begged them to. She was scared, and she was desperate, and she didn’t want to die, especially without anyone knowing the truth. He wouldn’t believe her, but perhaps she would tell him anyway. Later, he could tell her parents, and though they wouldn’t believe it either, at least they would know the truth, if not for what it was.

“Petyr?”

“Yes?”

“Are you awake?”

He chuckled and she giggled, realizing how stupid the question was. “Right. Of course. Um.” She paused. “This is going to sound really strange, but hear me out, okay? And please don’t laugh, or think too poorly of me. I swear I’m not….” She trailed off and sighed. “I’m not delusional.”

She took his silence as consent and plowed on before she could lose her nerve, explaining everything, all about the Night King and the curse, and about why she’d been so desperate to see Joffrey. When she’d finished, her heart was pounding and she squeezed her eyes shut tight and hunched her shoulders inwards, as if she could protect herself physically from the scorn that was sure to come. Thankfully, she was still facing away from him, so she couldn’t have seen his expression even with her eyes open, though she was dying to know what he was thinking.

Please don’t think I’m crazy, she silently begged. Please.

When he finally spoke, his voice was indeed laced with disbelief, though not for the reason she’d expected. “Like mother like daughter,” he said.

Startled, Sansa turned to face Petyr, who was looking at her with a mix of wonderment and pity. “What?”

“Did your mother never tell you the tale? Of her fiance before she met and married your father?”

She shook her head. “No….” she said slowly. “What does that have to do with the Night King?”

He sighed. “Oh, everything sweetling. It seems that he, much like myself, has a propensity for redheads. He was once enamoured with your mother, and she was bound by the same curse as yourself. I thought that she loved me then as I had loved her, and I begged Cat to let me kiss her and break the curse. But she wouldn’t agree to it. At the time, I’d foolishly thought that she was too scared to disappoint the Night King, so I sought him out and challenged him to a duel for her hand. He indulged me, but only for spectacle’s sake, and I nearly died at his hand before Cat told him that she’d go with him then and there, if he spared me. He agreed, and then, just to further drive the knife into my heart, added the condition that she must kiss me before they left. Of course, she didn’t love me, the Night King knew that, so it did nothing more than add further insult to injury.”

Sansa was horrified. She couldn’t imagine what that must have been like for Petyr. And for her mother. But something didn’t quite add up. “But how did she come back? Why didn’t the Night King freeze her for his collection, as he always does for those that don’t come willingly?”

“Ah, but she did come willingly. It had only been two days since he’d first visited her, and she hadn’t yet made her decision one way or the other, so when he tired of her she was able to come back and seek love on her own terms, where she eventually met and married your father,” Petyr explained. “And she didn’t have to come with the Night King when she did. It was a bargain she made of her own volition.”

“But she only went with him to save your life, right?”

“Perhaps, perhaps not.” He shrugged. “I never spoke to her again after that. It’s very possible she’d planned to go to the Night King anyway. Your mother had always been unfailingly pragmatic. Practical. She chose duty over love, and, if she indeed loves your father, I suppose she was rewarded for it, in a way.”

Sansa bit her lip. “I could never do that,” she confessed. “That’s why I chose the way I did, but now I’m wishing I’d chosen like my mother. It would have been smarter.”

“You may be right, but who’s to say the Night King would have tired of you? I certainly wouldn’t have. And then you’d have spent an eternity bound to someone you didn’t love.” Petyr grimaced. “I honestly can think of little else worse than such a fate.”

“Me either,” she agreed, then smiled. “You wouldn’t tire of me? Not even after an eternity?”

“Who would honestly tire of such a face, such a smile? Such a heart.” Petyr’s tone was teasing, though she sensed an undercurrent of truth within it.

Though she wasn’t cold, she shivered, and he raised his eyebrows. “Even with the fire at your back and a mountain of blankets, you have the audacity to shiver?” he japed.

“Well apparently I need body heat too,” she joked back, shivering again as if to prove her point.

He chuckled. “Point taken. Turn around.”

Sansa furrowed her brow, but did as he’d asked, then fought back a smile as she felt him sliding closer, his body fitting neatly against hers. She stiffened at first, then relaxed, snuggling closer as his arm found her waist, curving protectively around her body.

“Better?” he asked, his breath ghosting against her neck.

“Mmm, much,” she agreed.

“Good.”

It felt good, tucked into his embrace, his nose brushing against her neck, the steady thump of his heart against her back, his fingers whispering against the slightly exposed skin of her stomach where her shirt had ridden up. She sighed contentedly and wriggled closer still, then paused as she felt his lips curve against her neck, a shiver rocketing down her spine at the sensation.

“I thought you weren’t cold anymore,” he teased.

“I’m not.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Well then, either you’re lying or there’s an entirely different cause for the way you’re trembling, even now,” he murmured, his lips dotting her skin as his hand slid across her stomach to find her hip, squeezing gently.

Sansa licked her lips. “You’re welcome to find out.”

“Is that so? Aren’t we the temptress.” He caught her earlobe between his teeth and tugged, creating another shudder that shivered down her spine and sent her pulse racing between her legs.

Her breath caught and she turned her head, urging him onwards until his lips met her cheek, a gentle press that send her pulse skittering all the same. Hesitating for a moment, she quickly thought over the ramifications of turning around. She was nervous, but it felt so right, and if this was one of her last nights before she was bound to the Night King, then why not make the most of it?

Mind made up, she turned in Petyr’s embrace, their bodies so close together that their noses brushed, and then her eyes had fluttered closed and she felt his lips whisper against hers, the lightest of touches, before she moved closer still, her mouth molding against his. Somehow, despite the wine and the cake, he tasted of mint, and his lips were so soft and warm against hers that she forgot that she barely knew what she was doing and just let herself get swept away by the way she felt, here and now. Their tongues touched, and the kiss deepened further, and she was moaning softly as his hand wove into her hair, fingernails raking against her scalp.

She felt warmer now, hot even, scorching, as if the fire in the hearth had sunk deep into her veins, lighting her from within. Tentatively, she began to explore his chest, shoulders and back through his dress shirt, his lithe form taut beneath her fingertips, and then, hardly believing her actions, she was blindly fumbling with the buttons, unfastening each with increasing urgency. Petyr shrugged off the shirt once she’d finished, his lips still moving against hers, then immediately reached for her again, his hands finding the hem of her sweater.

Sansa broke the kiss, raising her arms as he tugged the sweater up and off, leaving her only in her bra (thankfully one of her nicer ones, red and lacy, worn in the spirit of the holiday and in anticipation of Joffrey seeing it. How stupid she’d been….). He stared at her for a moment, taking in her bared skin, and she shivered at the look in his eyes, feeling the heat pooling between her legs, her heartbeat an erratic tattoo that thrummed only for him.

And then he was kissing her again and she sighed softly against his mouth, loving the feel of his lips upon hers, the roughness of his stubble against her skin, the way he tugged at her bottom lip with his teeth. His hands felt wonderful against her skin, smoothing down her spine, tracing her curves, cupping her breasts through the lacy fabric of her bra. Sansa didn’t want him to stop, any of it, a noise of discontent leaving her lips as his mouth left hers, though it quickly turned pleased as he found a spot on her neck instead.

“Ohh,” she sighed, her eyes slipping closed as chills coursed through her body at the point of contact, marrying with the heat suffusing the rest of her in the most delightfully sinful manner.

Petyr’s lips trailed lower still, finding the tops of her breasts as his fingers found the catch of her bra and released it. Sansa opened her eyes again as he slid the straps down her arms and tossed the garment aside, his mouth slightly parted as he drank in the sight of her before him, completely bare from the waist up. Her breath caught as his gaze turned to unmistakable worship, and his tongue darted out, swiping over his lower lip before his eyes met hers and she couldn’t help but do the same.

Those same lips lifted in a smirk before he kissed her again, the force of it stealing her breath away before they nipped along her jaw and down her neck, traveling lower still, until….

Sansa’s mouth fell open, a low moan crawling up her throat as he took one of her nipples in his mouth, sucking gently. One of his hands was splayed upon the small of her back, keeping her upright, while the other palmed the breast not gifted with his mouth, thumb teasing its nipple into a hard peak. And then he switched and she bit her lip, containing another moan, her hands fisting in his undershirt. Suddenly desperate to feel his skin, bare against hers, she tugged at the fabric until he glanced up, her breast still in his mouth, his eyes clouded with lust. She tugged again and he released her nipple, his lips finding hers instead, and she raked her hands down his back, slipping them beneath his shirt and pushing the fabric up his body until he broke the kiss and helped her pull it off.

A gasp left her throat. There, upon his chest, spanning from navel to collarbone, was a scar, long healed from what had likely been a nearly fatal wound. Trembling, she reached out to touch its beginning, fingertips tracing down its length. The flesh was slightly raised and twisted, cutting through otherwise soft skin and a smattering of chest hair. She bit her lip, daring to meet his gaze again, and saw a brief glimpse of vulnerability before it was quickly hidden.

“A gift from the Night King,” he told her, his voice feigning indifference, but she could sense the hardness beneath. He did not want to talk about it any further. Not now. Not tonight.

Sansa nodded to show she understood then smoothed her hands up his chest, wrapping her arms around his neck until her breasts were pressed up against him, nipples stiffening at the contact. The smirk returned, and then he was kissing her again, and somehow her back was against their makeshift mattress and he was above her, between her legs, and she could feel him, hard and hot, even through layers of fabric. Her skirt had ridden up, bunching around her waist, but she’d worn leggings beneath it for warmth, a fact which she now regretted, as it meant one more barrier between them.

Still, it felt lovely as he rocked against her, and lovlier still as one of his hands snaked between them and stroked her through the fabric, which had nearly soaked through already due to his attentions. She’d never been with anyone before, had planned in fact to lose her virginity to Joffrey back when she’d still thought they loved each other (had that really only been a few hours ago?), but this, this felt right. It hadn’t come by design, but by mere chance, and she’d never craved someone so much before. She wanted to feel Petyr inside of her, to chase a shared bliss with kisses, thrusts, and caresses. She wanted him. So much.

And so, she wasn’t nervous when he pulled away, meeting her gaze deliberately as his hands found her waist, dipping beneath the waistbands of both her skirt and her leggings. Slowly, his eyes still fixed on hers, he tugged both garments down her legs and off, tossing them carelessly aside before he caught her bent knee in his hand and pressed a kiss to her skin, lips leaving a trail of fire in their wake as he kissed along her inner thigh, nearing her center. Petyr paused when he reached the juncture of her thigh and pelvis, his breath hot against her skin, and his eyes found hers again, as if seeking permission, before he kissed her right along her slit, through her underwear.

Sansa felt her hips jerk in response, and she hummed in approval as he kissed her again, thumbing the waistband of her underwear as he did so. He dragged the garment down her thighs with a deliberate slowness that prompted her to plead for him to hurry up, the entreaty rewarding her with a devilish smirk before he granted her wish. She hardly had time to take another breath before she felt him, his mouth hot and hungry against her sex, and whimpered, her legs clamping around his head. He grunted and continued, through his hands reached up to part her legs once more, firmly holding them in place as he teased her with his lips and tongue.

It wasn’t long before she broke, the wave sweeping her away with a greater force than she’d ever experienced before. Petyr carried her through, then placed one last kiss against her swollen folds before rising and capturing her lips, his tongue finding hers. She could taste herself there, musk mingling with mint, and feel the wetness in his beard, and, the gods help her, she liked it, knowing where his mouth had been, all for her. The throb between her legs returned with renewed vigor, and she found herself boldly reaching for his waist, palming his erection through his trousers, and then she was fumbling with his belt and tugging everything, boxers and all, down his narrow hips.

They were both bare now, and she reveled in the feel of him, skin against skin, her body curving around his before she gained the confidence to reach for him again, fingers wrapping around his length, stroking and touching him in a way she was certain showed her inexpertise. His kiss deepened in clear approval, and Sansa grew braver, adjusting her technique, her efforts rewarded as he thrust gently against her hand. And then she grew braver still and positioned him at her entrance, silently urging him to continue. He kissed her harder, his hand covering hers, teasing her slit with the tip for a few moments before he began to enter her, slowly, so as to allow her to adjust.

She felt a slight discomfort, but no pain as she had previously feared there would be. Perhaps she was one of the lucky ones. In any case, it didn’t matter why or how, just that she could finally feel him, filling her, making her whole again, her whole body waiting for something wonderful.

He broke the kiss and stared down at her, as if making she was okay, and when she smiled at him reassuringly he smiled back and kissed her nose before beginning to move. Soon the discomfort was but a thing of the past, and she was meeting his thrusts, wrapping her legs around his waist to pull him deeper still, craving more of him. His forehead rested against hers, his brow furrowed in concentration, and she urged him on, loving the way he filled her.

“Faster,” she begged. “Harder.”

He growled in response and straightened, dragging her closer as he slammed into her with increasing urgency, sweat dotting his brow. Her back arched and she cried out, screaming his name out to mingle with the crackle of the fire, and with his uttered curse as she pulsed around him.

“Fuck, Sansa,” he groaned, his hips continuing to snap erratically before she felt a rush of warmth and he spilled inside of her.

Her eyes drifted closed and she sighed, her lips curving upwards in pure, sated contentment as he dropped down to join her, pulling her close. Blindly, her lips sought his, and she could taste the same smile she wore on his lips as well, and felt her heart swell in response. He kissed her again, gently, sweetly, one hand cupping her cheek, his thumb tracing her cheekbone, the other hand gripping her hip possessively. Her center mourned the loss of his length, and she could feel his seed drying against her upper thigh, but his arms were around her and his lips were on hers and she’d never felt so purely happy.

So loved.

She soon found sleep, still wrapped up in Petyr’s embrace, and when she woke she felt the sun shining through the windows, warming her skin, which lay exposed but for the warm body against hers. Sometime in the night they’d kicked away every last blanket, no longer requiring their heat despite the fact that the fire had burned down to mere embers. Sansa felt Petyr’s arms tighten around her, and he dropped a kiss on her bare shoulder, lips smiling against her skin.

“Good morning,” he murmured.

“Good morning,” she agreed.

“The storm is over,” he whispered. “And the snow is melting. It seems the thaw has begun.”

Startled, Sansa opened her eyes and sat up. Heedless of the fact that she was naked, she scrambled quickly to the window and peered outside.

Petyr was right.

Shocked, she started to turn around, only to find him behind her, his arms slipping around her waist as he pulled her flush against him. Sansa leaned back against his chest, smiling as he kissed her cheek, then smiling wider as she realized what this must mean.

Was winter truly over?

And if so, did that mean… did Petyr love her? Did she love him?

Yes, yes she did. It seemed impossible, to fall in love so quickly, and yet she’d never been so sure of herself before, of her mind, and of her heart.

She tested the words, uttering them softly as he pressed another kiss to her cheek, his hands now gripping her shoulders. “I love you.”

He paused, his lips still against her cheek, then spun her around and kissed her, hard. “I love you too,” he whispered, his lips brushing against hers as he spoke.

Sansa kissed him again, her mind reeling, euphoric. Against the storms and the curse that few had ever broken, love had won, and winter had ended.

She was free.

And love, love had freed her. As she’d hoped it would. For that’s what the Night King had never understood, why he’d never found his eternal love in all the centuries of his immortality. Love was untamed, boundless, and meant to free the souls it touched, rather than bind them. True, untainted love was a choice to stay with one person, a willing pact between two people. Not an obligation. And though it bloomed sometimes where it was unwanted, or like to result in heartbreak, true love, love given and returned willingly, was always a choice in the end.

And she chose Petyr.

**Author's Note:**

> Merry Christmas to @jonarya786 and everyone who reads this <333


End file.
